The library’s fourth floor is the designated “quiet floor.” That’s where I am now, and it really is quiet here. My keystrokes sound like gunfire. They probably sound like gunfire to everyone else here, too.
No one’s saying anything, but there’s an almost-palpable passive-aggressive tension in the air. And I’m feeding into it. I’m amplifying it.
I’m barely able to admit to myself that one of the reasons I’m sitting here banging away at this keyboard is because my subconscious thinks it’s some sort of dumb revenge on the guy sitting at the table behind me.
That guy’s been eating a bag of chips for the past thirty minutes. Every crackle, every crunch, every rustle made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.
And I fucking hate myself for reacting this way. It’s hypocritical and a little insane. It’s not like I’m particularly quiet myself. The guy’s just being a human. People eat.
Another guy’s sitting two tables in front of me. He’s a lot quieter than I am, and yet he’s annoying the hell out of me too, and all he’s doing is turning the page of a textbook every so often. My annoyance at something like that is my problem, not his. I’m a dick. I don’t know why I’m so hypersensitive.
This floor is basically one giant room. Every sound carries. Every whisper might as well be a scream. It seems like the tiniest sounds get distorted into brain-breaking thunderclaps. I can’t deal with this place right now.
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